The Frailty of a Genius
by PhoneboxDetectiveKAZ-2Y5
Summary: Before Sherlock announces he is in fact alive and well after the Fall, he returns to his flat in Baker Street to find John Watson dead. After, he struggles with his wellbeing and stability. Will he get over it? Or will his guilt drive him to the edge?
1. Chapter 1

**So, this is my fist time posting any I have **_**ever**_** written online. I'm honestly not very comfortable with it, but-I made an exception, because I actually really love writing this. And so, I decided to post this. I don't really expect many to read it, but if you do, I hope you enjoy. And also, just to get it out of the way-**

**Disclaimer: I **_**do not**_** own **_**anything**_**. Obviously. I'm not Arthur Conan Doyle, or a writer for BBC's Sherlock. (I **_**wish**_**.)**

**Also, I do apologize if there are any mistakes. I **_**did**_** try to thoroughly examine it to make sure there were none present. **

**Please, enjoy.**

_It wasn't real. _

_It couldn't be._

_Surely,_

_The world couldn't be so cruel,_

_Could it…? _

"_Let me see him…! You have to let me through! Move…!"_

"_Sherlock, stand back."_

"_Move...! Get out of my way!"_

"_Sherlock, we're taking him to the E.R."_

"_No… No…! You're not taking him anywhere…! Let me see him—!"_

"_Sher…! You can't see him! Not now! I'm sorry but… I can't put you through that."_

The flat was empty. It was always empty. _Too_ empty. Ever since John…

_Left_.

I was curled up on the couch. It'd been a week. Too long. I couldn't take it. So I'd turned to drugs. They helped sooth the pain—but sometimes, it wasn't enough. I'd taken three hits.

_1:30 PM…_

_1:55 PM…_

_2:24 PM…_

I was ready for the next. In fact, I would've. I was interrupted.

"For God's sake, _Sherlock_…!" Mrs. Hudson cried, standing in the doorway.

_Garbed in all black._

_Face tear-stained._

"You couldn't have even gone to his _funeral_…?!"

_Obvious distress in her voice._

_She's angry._

_Grief-stricken._

I lie still, eyes fixed on the ceiling as I answered blankly, "Funeral?"

The look on her face made some part of me swell up with grief. Well. As much grief as I had _left_ to muster. She uttered something along the lines of, "unbelievable," before returning to her quarters.

I could hear her crying.

It wasn't long before the insomnia started.

_3:24…_

_2:10…_

_1:44…_

Side effect of the drugs, I suppose.

It's 1:50. I don't even bother to go back to sleep—there's no use. I get up, make a cup of coffee.

"_Rather early to be up, wouldn't you say?"_

I cast the voice a disgruntled groan, taking a seat in my chair, tucking my knees into my chest. I watch the liquid in my cup swirl as I blow softly on its surface.

"_Honestly, Sherlock. You're killing yourself."_

I sniffle a light laugh.

"You always were so worrisome, John."

_I feel relaxed._

_It's cold._

_Dark._

_I try to open my eyes, but I can't._

_Oddly, it doesn't bother me._

_I stretch. _

_Then, I yawn—But something happens._

_Something unexpected._

_My mouth fills with water._

_I panic, my eyes flicking open._

_It's salty—It stings._

_I'm drowning._

_Involuntarily, I scream._

_I make no sound-Obviously-I'm drowning._

_I start choking as water is forced down my gullet. _

_My lungs burn fiercely, starved for air. _

_My vision fades from blurring to pitch black._

_The light radiating into the water from the surface is blinding._

_It hurts. _

_I almost feel as if I can feel the water filling my lungs._

_I close my eyes, waiting for the end…_

I awake, gasping for air, filled with a silly satisfaction that it was only a dream. I'm drenched in sweat. Perfect time for a cold shower—But, I pause. I don't feel right. My lungs starting to tingle as I throw my legs over the side of the bed. I cough. Then _gag_. _What the hell…?_

I retch, half expecting to throw-up. It wouldn't be surprising, with the amount of drugs I inject into my system-but I don't throw-up. Instead, I spew _water_ onto the carpet. Before I have time to be bewildered, I'm forced to lean forward as I eject more water from my lungs. I feel like I'm frozen—my entire body chilled to the bone.

I can't breathe.

I feel like my lungs were set aflame.

I'm helpless as what seems to be gallons of water pushes itself up my throat.

I stop. Sitting up quickly, catching my breath. There's no water. I'm fine. A dream? No. I was _awake_. A _hallucination_.

I lean my head against my pillows, lying back down. I hear the panting of a canine, and reach my hands out for the comfort of its fur. It's warm. It's _real_.

"Oh, Redbeard." I give a drawn-out sigh, scratching behind the dog's ears. "I think I'm really losing it."


	2. Chapter 2

_"The frailty of a genius. Who knew that you, of all people Sherlock, could break under the loss of one measly life,_" Moriarty chimed from the seat across from me.

_1:45 AM_

I hadn't slept. Not in days. I was beginning to feel the toll.

_"Perhaps the one who acts invincible is really the easiest to crack. Really now, you're pathetic."_

I cast the "Consulting Criminal" an icy glare, shaking. I feel cold. Freezing. I can't think of a comeback, so I merely draw out a muffled, "Shut up," and go back to...

...What? I don't have anything to go back to.

No John.

No life.

_Nothing_.

I curl up, feeling as if the walls are closing in around me. Suddenly, I feel so small, and a timid voice in the back of my head is clearer than anything.

What's the point of me...? 

_"Sherlock."_

I ignore it.

_"Sherlock."_

I ignore it-again.

_11:34 PM_

I slept-barely. Two hours, at the most. Seems to be the only rest I've gotten as of lately. I'm exhausted-Mentally, and physically. I'm drained-running on low.

_"Sherlock."_

It's been calling my name for hours.

Sitting in _his_ chair.

Wearing _his_ skin.

Mimicking _his_ voice.

But-it's not _him_.

_"Sherlock."_

It's not _my_ John.

I don't know when it appeared-but it's here. Always here-calling out to me.

_"Sherlock."_

It tests my patience.

I answer.

"Are you going to call until I respond, or speak your mind?"

_"Sherlock-it was you."_

I tilt my head-slightly perplexed. It senses it.

_"Your fault."_

There it was. That pain in my heart. The same as when John... _left_.

_"It was your fault, Sherlock. You killed me. This is your fault. This is all your fault."_

I keep my composer, but the interior is crumbling.

_Shattering_.

_Self-destructing._

"You're not John," I say in a steady voice.

_"Your fault. All your fault."_

It smiles. I believe it derives some sort of pleasure from my pain. It can't see it-but It senses it.

Senses me _demoralize_.

And it's _happy_. 

The night I came back. The night he _left_. I remember it well.

_The metallic smell._

_The gun-power._

_And all that blood._

_All that scarlet blood._

_It stained the walls, the floors._

_His face._

My heart had froze.

_I dropped to his side, gripping his face tight in my hands._

_I screamed his name, although I already knew all too well that he was gone._

_"John...!? John...!"_

Never before had I felt such pain.

_"John!"_

_I was truly feeling for the first time._

_It made me never wanted to feel again._

_Why did we have to feel when it hurt so badly?_

_What was worth such agony?_

_I held him in my arms, clung to him like my life depended upon it._

Had I cried? I can't recall. Perhaps I was too preoccupied screaming my throat raw to notice.

_4:15 AM_

I hardly recognized the time, caught in the tangled mess which were my thoughts. I was thirsty. I dragged myself out if the thing that provide the slightest bit of comfort in my life-my bed-and into the kitchen.

It was sudden-

I hit the floor-it was slick.

My ears rang as I lifted my head from the floor, groaning in pain.

_...?_

The floor was _sticky_.

The floor was _red_.

I gagged, jerking upright, looking around in a startled flurry.

Everywhere-_blood_.

_It stained the walls, the floors._

My breaths were shallow, quick.

I felt as if I were going to suffocate.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hand-a gun drooping from its slacked grasp.

I slipped in an attempt to arise.

I was drenched in scarlet.

_All that scarlet blood._

I finally got a closer look.

My heart froze.

_His face._

I dropped to his side, gripping his face tight in my hands. I screamed his name, although I already knew all too well that he was gone. Long gone.

"John...!? _John_...!"

Never before had I wanted to feel such pain again.

"_John_!"

I was truly tired of feeling.

I never wanted to feel anything again.

_Ever_.

I held him in my arms, clung to him like I would never hold him again.

Because I wouldn't. 

I scrubbed fiercely at my arms and hands.

It was _everywhere_.

Dried to my skin-underneath my fingernails.

It made me sick.

I released an aspirated whine. It wouldn't come off. I stained with _his_ blood. I couldn't stand it. 

It had to have been real. I would've sworn it-but-when I came out of that hallucination, my arms were red with irritation. They stung-I'd even broken skin in some areas. Everything was normal. No blood. No John. For the first time in ages, I felt a strange sense of relief-even thought I knew I was heading on a one way road down the rabbit hole.


End file.
